


Prickles

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Badger named Brock Rumlow, A hedgehog, Fluff, Gratuitous fox, M/M, Skinny Steve, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8978410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “I brought in a hedgehog last night? Wanted to see how he was doing," Steve says.The coffee guy brightens up. “L’il Stevie? Yeah, he’s doing good.”Steve freezes. “What?”“Stevie, that’s what Bucky calls him. Cause he’s small and prickly.” The coffee guy grins at him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Naomilasenby as part of the StuckyThorki Secret Santa!

Steve crashes through the glass doors of the SHIELD Wildlife Rescue Centre and rushes up to the reception desk, his brown leather jacket bundled up in his arms. The desk is unoccupied, a black ski jacket draped over the single office chair pulled up to the desk.  
Steve looks around, panicked, until he sees a small brass bell sat on the desk. He shifts the bundle in his arms to one side and hammers on the dome frantically.  
“Hello? Anyone here? Hello?!” He calls out, looking around the sterile, white walled reception area. He sees a couple of plastic chairs in a waiting area, a billboard with pictures of rescued animals and lost and found adverts. There are doors leading to other parts of the rescue centre, but no one comes to help him.  
He feels like screaming. The bundle in his arms wriggles and grunts at him.  
He hammers on the bell again and shouts until he hears a distant clattering and the door across the lobby flies open.  
A man walks out, tall with a curtain of dark hair falling into his bright blue eyes. He’s cradling a mug of coffee in one hand, the other pushing the hair out of his face. Steve realises with a start that the hand holding the coffee is a prosthetic, dull metal intersecting plates where his hand and arm should be that disappear up his sleeve of his scrubs.  
“Where the fuck have you been?” Steve snaps, struggling with the squirming bundle in his arms.  
The man frowns at him, then looks over at the reception desk.  
“Darcy,” he mutters, setting his coffee on the desk.  
Steve stares at him while he fumbles around looking for clipboard, attaching a sheet of paper to it and dropping it on the desk in front of him. He pulls a pen out of a drawer and drops it on top of the clipboard.  
“Fill that out,” he says absently.  
Steve swears at him. “I’ve got a poor creature dying here? You want me to write an essay for you?!”  
The man looks at Steve, red faced and his shirt soaked in piss and blood.  
“Company policy,” he says with a shrug.  
Steve swears at him some more and he blinks, nonplussed. “You finished?” He asks when Steve has run out of air and is wheezing softly in the silence. He shifts the bundle to the crook of his arm and shoves his hand in his pocket, pulling out an inhaler. He rams it in his mouth and depresses the top, giving the guy a look that dares him to comment. The guy says nothing, though the corner of his mouth softens slightly.  
Steve nods, trembling slightly. “I’ll do it, I don’t care how many forms there are, but can you please just help it first?”

There is something defeated in his voice that the man takes pity on. He steps closer and takes the bundle out of Steve’s arms. His nametag reads ‘Bucky’.  
Steve resists for a moment, then lets the man, Bucky, take the bundle in his arm. His shoulders sag, the fight suddenly leaving him as Bucky peels back the leather to reveal a pointed, pale face and a prickly body.   
Steve picks up the pen and starts filling out the form, writing down his name and contact details while Bucky carefully lifts the hedgehog out of the jacket, drops the damp fabric on the desk and carefully balances the struggling creature in his hands with practiced ease.   
“What happened?” He asks quietly, peering into its ears.  
“I was on my way home from work. It was dark, I didn’t see it until…” He hesitates, his throat tight. He swallows reflexively a few times, but it doesn’t help.  
“What were you driving?” Bucky peers into the hedgehog's eyes.  
“Triumph. Uh, a motorbike.” Steve says sheepishly.  
Bucky looks at him with a raised eyebrow and Steve straightens to every last inch of his skinny five foot and loose change and glares up at Bucky.  
“You got a problem?” He glowers.  
Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t think a little fella like you would be able to manage.”  
“Fuck you,” Steve spits.  
Bucky grins at him. “Oh, I like you!”   
Steve balls his fists and takes a breath, but Bucky just tilts his head to the door he had just come through.  
“Follow me. Bring the clipboard”  
He walks off with the hedgehog and Steve, after a moment of hesitation, follows after, biting his tongue.

Bucky leads him to a door marked Consultation Room. Behind the door is a broom cupboard sized white painted room. There is a black topped table in the centre and a bookshelf filled with bottles and boxes against the far wall next to a small sink. Steve closes the door behind him and watches as Bucky picks a set of scales off the bookshelf and sets it on the table, turning it on and gently placing the hedgehog in the cradle. He takes the clipboard from Steve’s unresisting hands and points to the sink with it.  
“Go wash your hands,” he says, making a note on the clipboard.  
Steve doesn’t argue and goes to the sink, squirting the pungent sanitiser on his hands and washing them under the tap. He turns back to see Bucky take a little torch out of his pocket and shine it into the hedgehog's eyes, then check in it’s mouth. The hedgehog protests, making little barks and grunts. He sets it back on the table and watches the way it lists around in a little circle, his hands out to make sure it doesn’t get too close to the edge.  
Bucky makes a few more notes, reads through the section Steve has filled out and then picks the hedgehog up again. He hands the clipboard back to Steve.  
“Take that to reception on your way out, Darcy will show up at some point and take care of it.”  
Steve stares at him, making no move to take the paperwork.  
“That’s it?” He snaps.  
Bucky adjusts the hedgehog in his grasp. “Yeah.”  
“What’s gonna happen to it? Is it going to be okay?”   
Bucky holds up a hand, trying to stop the panicked flow of words.  
“He’ll live. Hedgehogs are tough.”  
Steve pales. “But he’s hurt.”  
Bucky nods, giving Steve a sympathetic look. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s blind, may have brain damage.”  
“Oh god,” Steve whispers, putting his hand to his mouth.  
Bucky shakes his head. “We don’t know if it was you. He could’ve been hit by a car already and was disoriented.”  
Steve shakes his head. “He was just sat there in the road, I tried to swerve…”  
Bucky shushes him. “Hey, it’s okay. You brought him here.”  
Steve nods silently, his hand clamped over his mouth. Bucky sighs and cradles the hedgehog closer.  
“Alright, come with me.”

Steve follows Bucky out the door and down the corridor, passing other consultation rooms before Bucky reaches an unmarked door and pushes it open. He leads the way into a dimly lit room, a counter on one side lined with metal cages with fleecy pads on their bases. At the far end of the room is a fenced off area with a shelter at one end and a large badger limping around in it.  
“That’s Rumlow,” Bucky says, putting the hedgehog in one of the cages. “Keep your fingers away from him, he’s grumpy.”  
The badger makes a low barking sound and Steve flinches away from him. Bucky snorts and sets up a food bowl and water dish in the cage.  
“Are these all your animals?” Steve asks quietly. He had expected a lot more than a single, bad tempered badger.  
“Naw, we have several rooms. Can’t keep the kestrels with the rabbits,” Bucky raises his eyebrows. “That would get messy.”  
“What else have you got?” Steve peers over at the badger again.  
“At the moment? A few birds, though that's Clint's area. A pine marten.” He points to one of the cages, where a pointed, rodenty face is peering out of bundled blanket. “A couple of bats. I think we still have a mole, I’d have to check.”  
Steve nods, watching the hedgehog slowly circling around his fleece bed.  
“What’s going to happen to him?” He asks quietly.  
Bucky closes up the cage and gives Steve a sympathetic look. “I’ll keep an eye on him overnight, give him fluids if he can’t drink on his own. If he improves we’ll transfer him to a wildlife sanctuary, since he can’t be released into the wild.”  
“Because he’s blind,” Steve whispers.  
Bucky leads him out of the room, closing the door behind him and walking them back to reception. “He’s a tough little fucker,” he says softly.  
Steve nods silently, placing the clipboard on the desk and picking up his damp coat.  
Bucky looks at the blood-stained, hedgehog piss-soaked fabric, the scrawny little guy twisting it in his hands, and frowns. He reaches over to the chair and unhooks the jacket draped over the backrest.  
“Here, you can borrow mine.”  
Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”  
Bucky lets out an exasperated little noise and holds the jacket under Steve’s nose.  
“Take the damned jacket. Bring it back in a day or two, you can see how the little fucker is getting on.”  
Steve hesitates and takes it, putting his jacket on the reception desk while he pulls it on. It’s much too big for him, but it’s warm and waterproof and smells slightly of sawdust.  
“Thanks,” he mutters.  
“Maybe get it washed before you bring it back?” Bucky adds with a smirk.  
Steve wrinkles his nose up while Bucky chuckles and checks over the paperwork on the hedgehog, making a couple more notes at the bottom of the sheet.  
Steve stares at the metal plates of his arm flexing and twisting while he leans against the desk.  
“How did you lose your arm?” He blurts out.  
Bucky makes a distracted noise, then glances at his silvered fingers. “Working on a reservation in Kenya. Gorilla ripped my arm off.” He tugs down the collar of his scrubs to show where the prosthetic meets twisted, marred skin. “Tore it right out of the socket.”  
Steve goes a little green and swallows loudly, then see’s the smirk on Bucky’s face,  
“Oh fuck you, jerk.” He mutters.  
Bucky cackles at him. “Had you going there.”  
Steve shakes his head and turns away, giving Bucky the finger before pushing through the door and out into the night.

Steve thinks about the hedgehog while driving home, keeping well below the speed limit and watching out for anything on the road. He thinks about the hedgehog while climbing the stairs to his cramped little apartment. He thinks about the hedgehog while showering, washing away the last traces of blood and piss and fear. While loading his clothes into the washing machine, while checking the loaned jacket for washing instructions, while crawling into bed, he thinks about the hedgehog.  
He doesn’t think about Bucky. Doesn’t think about his blue eyes or his bright smile or the way he laughs, low and sweet.

Steve works from home, most of the time. He spends his days sat behind his drawing desk working on illustrations for magazines and commission work, or staring blankly into space until inspiration strikes. He rarely leaves his cramped little apartment, and if he does it’s by force, a meeting with a client or to the pharmacist to refill his prescriptions.   
He rests his chin on his closed fist, idly sketching instead of starting his latest piece, some nonsense to accompany an opinion piece in the Sunday paper. He doodles a hedgehog wandering around the bottom of his paper. Then scratches out a heavy lidded eye looking straight at the viewer, dark hair falling across it. He stares at it for a moment before recognising it and swears under his breath, unclipping the sheet of paper and tossing it to one side. He sets a fresh sheet in place and glares at it.   
Pull yourself together, Steve he thinks to himself. He met the guy for, what, five minutes? And spent most of the time swearing at him. This is why you’re single, he thinks bitterly, tossing his pen on the table.  
He paces around for a few minutes until he sees the black ski jacket draped over the back of the couch, clean if not exactly dry.  
He could take it back. See how the hedgehog was doing. Maybe manage a conversation with calling him every name under the sun.  
“Fuck,” Steve mutters.  
Who is he kidding. Guy like that wouldn’t be single. And if he was, he wasn’t going to be interested in someone who had been screaming in his face less than twelve hours ago.  
Steve grits his teeth and grabs the jacket. Fuck it, he can give the guy his damned jacket back, get told to fuck off and get on with his life.

Steve parks his bike outside the SHIELD Wildlife rescue centre, knocking down the kickstand and climbing down. He pulls the jacket out of the pannier slung over the back and shoves his keys in his pocket, head down as he pushes through the glass doors and skulks into the reception.  
The chair behind the desk is empty, so he taps the little brass bell warily before calling out. There is a clatter from behind a nearby door, and a low bark. The door nudges open to reveal a fair haired man clutching a mug of coffee. He has a black eye and a bandage across his nose, and a medium sized, brown haired dog circling his legs and letting out soft little wuffs.  
The dog spots Steve before the man does, and trots over to sniff his hands and nose at his pockets.   
The coffee guy raises his mug when he finally notices Steve. “Oh, hey man.”  
Steve mutters a hello, patting the dog on the head.  
The coffee guy looks at the reception desk with a frown. “Darcy,” he mutters to himself before turning back to Steve. “You, uh. Need something?”  
Steve nods. “I brought in a hedgehog last night? Wanted to see how he was doing.”  
The coffee guy brightens up. “L’il Stevie? Yeah, he’s doing good.”  
Steve freezes. “What?”  
“Stevie, that’s what Bucky calls him. Cause he’s small and prickly.” The coffee guy grins at him.  
The dog whines and licks at Steve’s clenched fists. “You think that’s funny?” Steve growls.  
Coffee guy grins. “Yeah, wouldn’t shut up about him.”  
He remembers writing his name and number on the admission form last night, Bucky must have seen it there.   
Steve sighs, letting his shoulders slump. Of course they had a good fucking laugh about him.   
The coffee guy clicks at the dog. “C’mon Lucky, don’t be a bag of dicks.” He pats the dog on the side when it comes over. “Bucky’ll be in for the night shift. You wanna leave a message?”  
Steve shakes his head. “No. Can you make sure he gets this?” He hold out the jacket.  
“Sure thing, man.” The coffee guy takes the jacket and dumps it behind the reception desk. Steve can see a name tag reading ‘Clint’. The guy with the birds, Bucky had said.  
Steve turns and heads for the door. He pauses and glances back at the coffee guy.  
“How did he lose his arm?” He asks quietly.  
Clint shrugs. “Mauled by a polar bear in the arctic.”  
Steve shakes his head and can’t help but smile. “Okay. Thanks.”  
“Later,” Clint salutes him with his mug.

Steve spends the rest of the day working on commissions, the ball of anger in his chest slowly becoming a lead weight in his gut. He does a sketch of Bucky getting his head bitten off by a giant hedgehog, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.  
He sits back, stretching his aching spine and getting to his feet, trying to walk off the pins and needles in his limbs before searching through the kitchen for food that isn’t crackers or ramen. He’s staring at the contents of his fridge, a tub of margarine and half empty jar of mustard, when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and frowns at the number, it’s not one of his clients and they’re the only people who call him. He swipes to answer.  
“Hello?” He says warily.  
There is a crackle at the other end and a low, gruff sound.  
“Quit it, Rumlow. Oh, hey! Is that Steve?” Says a familiar voice.  
Steve nearly drops the phone. Bucky. Bucky, calling him?   
“You there?” Bucky adds after a moment's silence.  
“Oh, yeah. Um. Yeah,” Steve blurts out, flustered.  
Real smooth, Rogers, he thinks to himself, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.  
“It’s Bucky here, from the rescue centre?”  
Steve nods dumbly, then remembers he’s on the phone. “Um. Yes?”  
“Yeah, just wanted to give you an update on the little guy.”  
Steve leans against the fridge door. “Yeah?”  
“He’s doing good. Eating and drinking, getting around alright.” Bucky pauses, his voice lowers conspiratorially. “He’s a scrappy little fucker too. His bark is worse than his bite.”  
Steve feels his heart kick in his chest. Is he flirting? He covers his face with his hand, trying to will away his burning cheeks. “Yeah?”  
Bucky’s voice is softer. “Yeah, seems that way.”  
Steve clears his throat, he’s probably reading too much into things. But he bites his lip and smiles. “Sounds about right,” he says when the silence has dragged on for too long.  
“So.” Bucky says slowly. “He’s getting transferred to a wildlife park in a few days. You want to see him before he goes?”  
Steve tamps down on the warm sensation in his chest. It still spreads outwards, filling his throat and creeping along his skin.   
“Um. Yeah. That would be great.”  
“Okay. I’m on duty ‘till eight tomorrow.” There’s a moment's pause. “That’s not too late?”  
Steve shakes his head, then remembers he’s on the phone. Get it together, Steve.  
“No, that’s fine.”  
“Nowhere else you gotta be?”  
Steve laughs. “As if.”  
They are both silent for a moment, and Steve clears his throat.  
“How did you lose your arm?”   
He can hear the smile in Bucky’s voice. “Got bitten by a spider in Borneo. Whole thing swelled up and went black. And the smell, Jesus!”  
Steve can’t help but laugh. “You’re such an asshole.” He clears his throat again. “Tomorrow,” he says firmly.  
Bucky’s voice is warm and sweet. “See you then.”  
He hangs up, and Steve stares at his phone afterwards for longer than he cares to admit.

Steve parks his bike outside the rescue centre at 7.30pm, and wanders around the parking lot for five minutes before he swears under his breath and pushes through the glass doors. He’s changed his shirt three times and changed his mind twice as many since yesterday's call from Bucky. What if he’d read things wrong and the guy had genuinely just wanted to let him know the hedgehog was okay. What if he was interested? What if Steve opened his damn fool mouth and the guy came to his senses and ran the hell away?

At the reception desk was a young woman with long dark hair, her nose buried in a textbook. Steve takes a deep breath and walks up to her, clearing his throat until she looks up at him.  
“Oh. Hello. Can I help you?” She says absently.  
Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Uh. Here to see Bucky?”  
She presses a buzzer on the desk and goes back to her book. Steve frowns, but keeps his mouth shut, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. After a minute the door across the lobby cracks open and Bucky peers out. He spots Steve and pushes the door open, a broad grin spreading across his features and crinkling up the corners of his eyes.  
“Hey, Steve. You made it.” He gestures behind him with a thumb. “This way.”  
Steve follows, pushing the door closed behind him and jogging to keep up with Bucky’s long stride.  
“You want some coffee?” He gestures to a break room as they pass.  
Steve shakes his head and Bucky keeps walking, reaching an unmarked door and pushing it open, waving for Steve to follow him.  
Steve recognises the dimly lit room from his last visit, the row of cages on the counter and the irritable badger in the corner.  
“Hey, Rumlow,” he says softly. Rumlow grunts at him.  
“You remembered,” Bucky exclaims, and Steve tries not to blush.  
Two more cages are occupied. One has a small, weaselly creature curled up in it, the other has another hedgehog. Bucky opens up a cage and pulls out a squirming bundle. He hushes it, his voice fond, and turns to Steve.  
“You wanna hold him?”  
Steve starts and nods his head, holding his hands out nervously. Bucky places the bundle in his hands, adjusting his fingers as he cradles the hedgehog.  
“Watch out for the prickles,” Bucky murmurs.  
Steve lets out a little chuckle as the hedgehog sniffs at his fingers, its little nose twitching, until Bucky takes him back, their fingers brushing together, and puts him back in the cage.  
“Thank you,” Steve says quietly.  
Bucky makes a dismissive noise and fastens up the cage. He glances over at Steve a few times, almost hesitant, before speaking.  
“You eaten?” He asks finally. Steve shakes his head. “You wanna get some takeout? There’s a good place just down the road.”  
Steve ducks his head, a smile twisting his lips. “Yeah.”  
Bucky nods and double checks the cage is locked. “Okay, let's go.”  
He checks the rest of the cages and leads Steve back to the reception, where he grabs his jacket and checks in with the veterinarian on the late shift, a twitchy, dark haired guy called Scott who’s the resident insect specialist. They say goodnight and head off through the glass doors.

“You come on your bike?” Bucky asks.  
Steve nods and points to the parking lot. He tries to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth and say something, but only manages a weak little croak before clamping his mouth shut again.  
“I don’t live far, so you want to leave it here? Pick it up later?”  
Steve tries to swallow and nods his head. Is he staying the night? Should he have brought a toothbrush? He has a condom in his wallet, but it’s probably expired. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks a little faster.  
“You okay?” Bucky comes to a halt, catching Steve’s elbow in his hand, tight enough to bring him to a halt but not so much that he can’t pull away. “You haven’t told me to go fuck myself yet.”  
Steve flushes pink. “Go fuck yourself,” he mutters.  
Bucky grins again. “That’s more like it.”  
They stop at a dingy little storefront with faded chintz curtains covering the window. A handwritten card tucked in the bottom corner reads ‘Open’. Bucky pushes open the door and Steve’s nostrils are assaulted with the odour of frying onions and cumin. They enter a cramped little room, on one side is a low counter, a closed door behind it. On the other, under the curtained window is a padded bench. Bucky walks up to the counter and leans on it, waving Steve over and handing him a photocopied menu. Steve takes it and stares blankly at the unfamiliar words.  
“This is a restaurant?” he asks incredulously.   
Bucky shakes his head. “Takeaway.”  
“I don’t really know much about Indian food,” Steve says eventually.  
Bucky gives him an encouraging look. “Okay, you like food spicy? Mild? Got any allergies?”  
“Dust mites? I’m not good with spicy food.”  
“Well, they don’t have dust mite biryani, so you should be fine,” Bucky says with a smirk.  
“Jerk,” Steve mutters, but there’s no malice in his voice.  
The door behind the counter opens and a short, stocky Indian woman with a shock of white hair bustles in. She beams at the sight of Bucky and gives Steve a sly glance.  
“You’re a cheap date, Barnes,” she cackles.  
Bucky blushes and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Hey Kaushy. This is Steve.”  
Steve lifts a hand and mutters hello.  
“What’ll you boys be having?” Kaushy asks.  
“Should I order for both of us?” Bucky asks quietly when Steve fails to say anything.  
“Uh. Sure.”  
Bucky hunches over the counter, running a finger through the menu. “Okay, muttar paneer, handi, chole, one thepla and a Peshwari naan.”  
Bucky glances at Steve, who nods dumbly and tries to find them on his menu.  
“Anything else?”  
“No. Thanks Kaushy.”  
She pats the counter. “Go sit your asses down and wait.” She commands before disappearing through the door.  
Steve slumps down on the bench, still trying to figure out what he’ll be eating. Bucky sits next to him and leans on his shoulder while he points to the items on the menu. It’s… nice. Personal without being uncomfortable.  
“Cheese and peas, tomato and vegetable curry, chickpeas, flatbread,” he intones, pointing to each item.  
“Okay, I got it,” Steve murmurs. He feels an odd sense of disappointment when Bucky moves away.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, occasionally broken by Bucky asking a question and Steve giving a one-worded reply.  
Steve sighs heavily, folding his hands over his stomach. He’s fucking up. He’s trying not to but he’s fucking up anyway.   
Kaushy reappears with a plastic bag full of cartons and Bucky goes up to the counter to pay. Steve follows and kicks up a fuss about paying instead, and Kaushy watches them bicker with open amusement until Steve finally agrees to go halves. Steve scowls to himself as they leave, watching Bucky close the door carefully and start walking. Why can’t he just let someone do something nice, and not kick up such a stink.  
“You okay?” Bucky says quietly.  
Steve is sick of hearing his gentle concern and snaps.  
“No, I’m not okay,” he spits. “I’m a colossal asshole who’s done nothing but swear at you! And you’re being nice. And I’m trying to be… Fuck, I don’t know. Normal? But it’s just coming out weird and it doesn’t matter because you’ll figure out I’m a mean little shit and leave anyway.” Steve stops and reaches into his pocket for his inhaler. He rams it into his mouth and takes deep, steady breaths until his hands stop shaking, taking a wary step back from Bucky when he moves towards him, concern creasing his features.  
Steve shoves the inhaler back in his pocket, shoulders hunched as if anticipating a blow. He doesn’t retreat when Bucky steps closer.  
“I like you prickly,” Bucky says softly and leans in to kiss him.  
It’s a brief kiss, a soft press of lips over before Steve can react. Bucky reaches out his hand and tangles their fingers together. Steve looks down at the dull silver against his pale skin, palm to palm.  
“Okay,” he breathes.  
Bucky tugs at his hand and they start walking.

Bucky leads the way into his ground floor apartment, kicking off his shoes and dumping them by the door.  
“Shoes off,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen. “Ginger gets underfoot and you don’t wanna step on her.”  
Steve unlaces his boots while Bucky pulls plates out of a cupboard and sets them on the kitchen counter.   
“You have a dog?” He asks, hopping on one foot as he pulls off his boot.  
“No,” Bucky takes a pouch of cat food out of a box on the counter and empties it into a plastic bowl on the floor.  
“You have a cat,” Steve pulls off his other boot.  
“Nope,” comes the cheerful response.  
“What the fuck do you have?” Steve mutters, coming into the kitchen.   
Bucky opens a patio door that leads from the kitchen into a square of overgrown garden. There is a rustling in the shrubs and low hanging trees at the far end and a small fox comes loping out, surprisingly agile considering she’s missing a back leg.   
The fox rubs up against Bucky’s leg and whines, flapping her tongue at him.  
“This is Ginger. Lost her leg in a snare,” he strokes the foxes ears. “Couldn’t release her, so she keeps me company."  
“She’s beautiful,” Steve murmurs.  
“Foul tempered old fleabag when I first got her,” Bucky smiles at Steve, warm and sweet. “Prickly little fuckers just need time and understanding,” he says quietly, watching the fox sniff out her food bowl and start eating.  
Bucky straightens up and washes his hands in the sink before emptying out the carrier bag and opening up the cartons, filling the room with the smell of hot bread and rich spices.  
“So, you want to try a bit of everything?”  
Steve nods, but doesn’t try to speak. His throat feels tight, like the words in there are too huge to get out.  
Bucky divides the cartons up between the two plates, passing one over to Steve with a fork. He leads the way to the living room and sinks onto a worn old sofa covered in blankets.   
They eat in comfortable silence, but for the scrape of forks against plates, the food spicy and sweet.   
Steve chews on the last piece of naan and thinks about prickles, how they don’t hurt if you touch them the right way, careful and assured.   
He puts his plate on the coffee table, leans forward and pulls Bucky's plate out of his unresisting hands, setting it down and slowly climbing onto Bucky’s lap. He pushes his fingers into long, dark hair. Bucky’s lips taste like fenugreek, he parts them slowly, hands resting on Steve’s hips, fingers pushing under his shirt. Steve licks into his mouth. Coconut and cumin, sweet and rich.

Bucky trails his fingers across Steve’s shoulders, light and ticklish. Steve shifts, his head pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder, bare skin warm and tacky. He grumbles into Bucky’s neck, breath hot and damp.  
“Drunk driver,” Bucky murmurs. “Lost my folks and my arm. Payout put me through college, paid for the surgeries and the prosthetic.”  
Steve keeps as still as he can while Bucky runs the flat of his hand across the nape of Steve’s neck.  
“I got a little sister. Becca. She’s a pain in the ass. You’d like her.”  
Bucky falls silent and Steve kisses the hollow behind his ear.  
“I have asthma. And scoliosis. And a heart defect.” Steve whispers, mouthing at the curve of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky turns his head and catches Steve’s mouth, biting at his lower lip.  
“Prickly little fucker,” Bucky murmurs, rolling Steve onto his back and kissing his way down his chest, sucking bruises on his narrow hips. Steve tilts his head back and gasps, fingers digging into Bucky’s shoulders, lost in the sweet, warm heat of his mouth.

Steve wakes up, his body aching sweetly under the blankets, and blinks in the light slanting through the blinds. He sits up slowly, raising his arms above his head and relishing in the stretch. He can hear the sound of Bucky puttering around in the kitchen, his low, clear voice as he sings to himself. The clatter of crockery and the scent of fresh coffee, the click of claws on tiles.  
Steve fumbles around until he finds his clothes scattered on the floor, quickly getting dressed and pushing open the bedroom door. He peers into the kitchen and sees Bucky dressed in jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt, poking at an omelette pan. Ginger pads around his bare feet, sniffing for crumbs.  
Bucky looks up and grins at Steve, a broad bright smile that crinkles his eyes.  
“Hey, you want some eggs?”  
Steve nods, stepping around the fox and taking a seat at the table.   
“How d’you take ‘em?”  
Steve shrugs. “Anyway they come.”  
Bucky nods and tips an omelette onto a plate, passing it over. Steve murmurs a thank you and watches as Bucky cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks them up before pouring them into the hot pan.  
“Coffee?” Bucky grabs a mug from the draining board by the sink.  
“Yeah, black.”  
Bucky pours him coffee and sets the mug down on the table, ruffling his messy hair and kissing him on the forehead.  
Steve swats him away with a yelp, which makes him cackle. Steve watches as Bucky flips his omelette onto a plate and joins him at the table.  
They eat in comfortable silence, nudging each others feet under the table. Ginger looks at them with disgust and trots over to a dog bed tucked in the far corner, curling herself into a tight ball and burying her nose in the tuft of her tail. She huffs loudly and closes her eyes.  
“You got work today?” Bucky asks, scraping up the last scrap of eggs from his plate.  
“Yeah. Finish off an assignment, but shouldn’t take too long.” Steve takes a sip of coffee. “You?”  
Bucky yawns and scratches his head. “Shift starts at midday. Otherwise I’m all yours.”  
Steve tries not to blush at the smirk on Bucky’s face. Fails. He fiddles with his coffee cup, his eyes on the empty plate in front of him.  
“How did you lose your arm?” He asks quietly.  
He dares a glance up at Bucky, who is watching him with a soft, open expression that makes his breath catch in his throat.  
“Bitten off by a crocodile when I was working in Florida.” Bucky says brightly.  
Steve lets out a snort, covering his face with his hands. His heart feels full, too big to fit in his chest.


End file.
